Lost in Rift of Time
by The Wandering Muse
Summary: The years flow like an unrepentant river, carrying the soil of life away, holding far more than they can deliver. A magical intervention enters the fray. Poem-fic ONE-SHOT


_**A/N: Cross-posted from AO3. A Christmas Fic Exchange 2017 to fellow writer: Snape4everLove**_

* * *

 _A small tinge of warmth starts to spread into his body like a flume_

 _As though he was claustrophobically encased within a Pharaoh's tomb,_

 _Similar to being inside his loving mother's womb._

 _Christmas time had once been the Princes' seasonal bloom._

 _The time so well spent in the kitchen's aroma of festiveness overwhelmed Eileen's unique blend of perfume._

 _One would carelessly assume,_

 _As a homestay mum, cooking was her job and her favorite tool was a broom._

 _You're partially right, of course. But it's her love for cooking stemmed from concocting potion blends in the workroom._

 _Inside, she hummed and stretched like a Siamese cat basking in the glow of the sunroom._

 _Curiosity shone, one fine day, as he wobbled on knobby legs with hands outstretched, out of his playroom_

 _And into the first wisps of colorful clouds beckoning him in where his interest abloom._

 _._

 _Grasping hold of the wooden legs of the stool,_

 _He climbs up until he sees the edges of the brass cauldron of liquid simmering to a cool._

 _Inside sits the most translucent pool_

 _His grabby hands stretch for the nearest tool._

 _Looking back, he admits he was such a fool._

 _No worse than this unfortunate circumstance, he dearly wishes this was April Fools._

 _._

He blinks awake in this dirty cramped space of a cubbyhole,

Darkness threatens to swallow him whole.

Eyes as dark as coal,

Could only roll…

His limbs tremble as weak as a foal,

Whilst his battered body has taken its toll.

So well-played in his role,

That he didn't think he would have needed a parole.

.

A fierce pain burns from the inside of his neck

Thoughts fly to that half-blooded, vile hypocrite of a redneck

He once faintly recalled of a pure-blooded roughneck,

Potter decked in red and gold, always on his check.

"What a sweet, young chap," the ladies beck..

Not once did they spare a glance at him in a slick turtleneck.

.

 _Ever the loner he was; his nose forever glued into the pages of a book_

 _Pouring them over in the hidden recesses of the library nook_

 _A frenzied quill in hand squeezed notes into the margins of his textbook._

 _Blots of ink-stained and marred, making them a challenge to be understood._

 _It wasn't like anyone was going to take a look._

 _._

 _Tucked away in his little notebook was a faded picture,_

 _Of a pretty girl who could hold her own liquor._

 _Certainly better than his own alcoholic father drowning him with lectures._

 _His insults were always his favorite clincher._

 _Mother's eyes dully flicker,_

 _Holed up in the room, tinkering with experiments as her go-to fixture._

 _Bright green eyes and fiery red hair, she was and always shall be his holy scripture._

 _With her around, Severus felt a decency of normalcy settling in; he had structure._

 _But by his own untimely undoing…. The taint of Mudblood smearing caused such a fissure,_

 _James Potter unwittingly became the better victor._

 _._

He should have been dead,

Killed by the deadly fangs of a pet snake seeing red.

Instead,

Strings of fate rose to delay his inevitable deathbed

Where he finds himself lying on a barely threaded bedspread,

Residing amongst the vermin as it's coed.

.

He does a double take; that better not be Wormtail,

Dragging the whale of its oversized belly across the frigid concrete like a snail.

It's not because he doesn't want to be seen as frail,

Certainly not because this makes such good blackmail,

That in every lowly Death Eater's eyes, Severus Snape had, for once, failed

And this is now his punishment; his jail.

What did the Muggles usually say? Hammer hits the nail.

.

In the distance, his ears strain to the faint sounds of inhumane shrieking.

His eyes water, his tear ducts leaking,

Trails of cold sweat mingled with blood on the side of his neck, dripping.

Clad in a rough sleeveless, ragged tunic, he lies on his side shivering.

On which Death Eater scum's torture dungeon floor was he currently residing?

Pondering

Thinking

Sirens screech in the expanse of his tired overworked brain with loud bells alarming.

.

Was it the Malfoys? Can't be for they've fallen out of favor,

Their rights and freedom have wavered.

.

The Notts? Definitely not. Their ranks aren't high on the list.

Severus went down his mental checklist,

They were often dismissed.

As often as the bickering between the Parkinsons and the Greengrass goes in the midst,

They have found the silver lining to a chaotic neutral coexist.

.

Certainly not the Blacks for The Order has it in their possession.

The Carrows have no discretion,

Neither the Averys, Rosiers, Crabbes, or Goyles have made an impression.

Macnair has the wrong profession,

He could be in Mulciber's for all he knows… That bastard has an unquenching aggression.

Rockwood and the Unspeakables have their own jamming session,

The Lestranges' debauchery techniques have never delivered an alive confession.

Who else could he call to question?

.

Outside of his cell, heavy footsteps pound the concrete floor,

The door creaks painstakingly open, dread pools in his core

At the sight of the lanky brothers sneering in the fore.

Expressions of dark delight and glee paint Severus's fate in store,

Till they shove a house-elf dressed in tattered loincloth in door.

In its tiny, dirt-speckled, iron-pressed hands hold many colored unlabeled vials to account for.

.

It uncorks each vial and then shoves each past his dry chapped lips, one after another.

A surge of sudden heat pools in his loins, causing such a shudder,

Embarrassment colors his cheeks, transforming him into quite the blusher.

.

While the potions aid in his recovery,

Severus makes a horrifying discovery.

In his state of disorientation,

Did he come to a realization…

the tunic on his back was only the beginning of his humiliation.

More house-elves pop into the cell in an organized summation.

They hold him down while it's dirty-crusted fingers spread greyish liquid onto his skin with such determination.

.

"Its work is done," the house-elf squeaks with a grin.

Opposed to Severus's chagrin.

.

He spits out the remaining greyish liquid of the depilatory potion,

Not that it matters, given that its effects have been put into motion.

Exposed wide open

With mixed emotions,

He frantically tries to find a solution

Amidst of the soft pitter-patter footsteps approaching.

.

A cross-breed of half kneazle, half feline

Slinks through the thick iron-wrought bars of his cell,

The top of its disheveled fur smelt fondly of sweet dessert wine.

Where old memories dwell…

There they linger despite the timeline.

.

'Brown eyes' stops and sniffs into the bowl of stale bread.

Severus could have sworn the half-breed looked oddly familiar,

Yet his mind comes up empty at the unnamed figure.

He faintly wonders if its owner is dead.

.

Or could it be an Animagus?

.

.

Therein comes a distinctive sharp pop!

A colorfully decorated house-elf dressed in green glittered fancy suit appears.

"Crookshanks!" It squeaks, "Mistress's been looking all over for you. Off ye go. Chop-chop!"

'Brown eyes' slinks out of his sight and disappears.

Hands on its hips, it turns around and claps,

"Merlin's balls. Ye reek of beers!"

Deft fingers snap,

It overtly cheers.

Caught unawares,

Severus finds himself clad in a pinstripe Muggle suit as the elf gives him the all-clear.

.

The overly cheerful elf escorts him down the dimly lit passage.

There in passing,

Did he come across a bespectacled man with odd-looking glasses.

Pressing him close to the wall while Severus forces to remain passive,

The odd man mumbles, "There seems to be no lasting damage."

He sniffs, "What a waste. Would you care for a sausage?"

.

"Where am I?" Severus asks.

The odd man declines to answer, pulling out a flask.

"Why. You're home, of course." His face drawn in an indecipherable mask.

A poke in his side alerts him of the house-elf impatient to complete its task.

.

Familiarity gradually creeps in

At the sight of the torches lit with bright bluebell flames.

On his left, a groan is heard and he pivots to find one of the infamous troublemaker's twins.

Limping as he once did, clutching the side of his head and towards the shadowy frames.

.

In another cell like his own, sits one restless Fred Weasley.

When upon seeing him, words of "Merlin's beard, we lost the war" uttered so defeatedly.

It makes Severus wonder where did they end up really.

.

An abrupt yell cuts both of their reveries off.

"I know that voice," Weasley weakly coughs.

.

He is urged urgently on

At the fevered words of "Ze Mistress doesn't like to be kept waiting."

He plays along,

And soon finds himself in the most decorative dining hall so venerating.

.

Sitting at the head of the table,

In what he imagines this to be a fable…

Granger in her Hogwarts attire

Participating in a heated discussion with the dark-haired spitfire.

Severus cautiously makes his way over, picking up a glass of cider.

He remarks as calmly as he can possibly muster, "This is quite a fanciful Christmas dinner."

.

They stop and turn;

His stomach churns

At the past selves of a young Lestrange and Granger bicker

His hand clutches the stem of the flute tighter.

.

.

"Professor."

"Miss Granger, care to explain where and why are we here?"

.

.

Granger rambles and words skitter,

Bella pointedly snickers

And then a thin bony finger points at the broken time-turner.

"It lost its ticker."

.

The odd bespectacled man chimes in at Granger's left, "Welcome to the Keeper,

For I am the Gatekeeper.

Therein lies ze place where all lost souls detour.

Sit down, my dear boy, before you catch a fever.

I ain't no healer,

But they tell me you're quite the deceiver."

.

.

.

"Eggnog?"

 **Fin.**


End file.
